Lady Crymsy

by P. N. Elrod

  I was absolutely certain the glass had not been there when I’d been down earlier. I’d have seen something like that. What the hell was this?

  Leaning close, I took a cautious sniff. Whiskey, I decided.

  My order for glasses and other items hadn’t yet arrived. The storage areas for all three bars in the place were quite clear of supplies.

  And there was no liquor on the premises either. This could only have been brought in by someone. What the hell for?

  “Hello?” I looked around. All I could figure was that one of the workers must have stayed behind or somebody snuck inside after they left and put it there for a joke while I was busy elsewhere. None of my friends would do such a thing since they knew I wouldn’t be able to drink the stuff. “Leon?”

  No answer. I listened for all I was worth. If I concentrate hard enough, I can hear a mouse belch, but nothing came to me in this big, hollow building.

  I was alone, but needed to be sure of it.

  Highly aggravated, I searched the joint, starting at the roof and moving downward. I worked fast, vanishing in one spot to appear in another so as not to make any sound myself, and I looked everywhere, even the dead space under the tiers of seating.

  Nothing and no one.

  I checked all the doors and windows, found them to be locked, including the front, where I’d been about to make my exit. Maybe someone had his own key and slipped out before I’d come in, but the point of the joke eluded me. A prank’s a lot more fun when you can see the face of the sucker you play it on.

  There wasn’t anything really valuable in the club yet, so I had no huge qualms about going even if somebody had another key. Leaving a shot of whiskey on a bar isn’t exactly in the same league as vandalism or burglary. If it really bothered me, I could always get a locksmith in to change things and debated on writing Leon another note about it.

  Too much trouble for the moment. The incident was more irritating than worrisome, and there were other things I had to get to tonight. The perpetrator would probably come forward soon enough to get his laugh. I gave the coaster a quick glance. It was of the plain cork variety, clean, but slightly brittle, as though it’d been left unused on the shelf for a long time and had dried out. Shrugging, I dumped the liquor in the sink behind the bar and left the glass there. If the prankster wanted to try some fun and games with me, he’d be back soon enough.

  And I’d be ready.

  Parking at the Red Deuces, even on a weeknight, was always a pain. This time I tried a different direction, but still had to hike a block to get there. The doorman gave a friendly nod and ushered me in just on the stroke of ten. The hostess knew my face, too, and spared me from paying out the dollar cover charge. I told her Bobbi had asked me to come backstage, and she got one of the waitresses to escort me there. For all the glitter out front, behind the curtains it was plain and run-down-looking, something I planned to avoid with Crymsyn. My entertainers were to be as happy about their surroundings as the patrons.

  Bobbi had a tiny dressing room, but it was all hers, and she’d assured me she’d been in worse. I thanked the waitress so she could leave and cautiously inched my way in. A table with a mirror took most of the space. I sniffed the air and picked up a wealth of greasepaint, talcum powder, and old clothes with Bobbi’s rose scent over all.

  I didn’t have long to wait; a small commotion outside announced her presence there as she spoke with other performers in the narrow hall. A few seconds later she came in, flushed from being under the spotlights, but happily relaxed. She wore the exaggerated makeup required for the stage and a midnight-blue dress that I liked for the way its neckline wasn’t anywhere near her neck. Instead of jewelry, she’d wrapped a silky blue scarf around her throat to conceal the small marks I’d left there.

  “Hi,” she said warmly, and came up for a hello kiss. “How’s your night been?”

  “Not too bad, considering what was in the papers. Charles thought I should be grateful they spelled my name right.”

  “I saw some of those stories. It’ll blow over.”

  “Not the stigma on the club, I don’t think.”

  “You can make people forget it.”

  “I could at that, but will the headache be worth it?”

  She sat at her dressing table and checked her makeup for smears. “What’s got you so testy? Besides the papers?”

  I didn’t think I was being testy, but she was just too good at reading me. I told her about the shot glass of whiskey on the bar and how impossible it was for it to have been there.

  “Someone must have left it while you were in the basement and snuck out one of the fire exit doors,” she suggested, fixing her lip rouge.

  “That’s what I was thinking, but I would have heard him. Those things make a big racket when they swing shut.”

  “It was eased closed, then. But that building’s kinda old. Ever think there might be a secret passage?”

  “You’ve been hanging around Charles too much.” Escott loved that sort of thing. He’d been the one to construct the trick trapdoor in the kitchen for emergency access to my sanctuary. His office also contained a couple of hidden surprises.

  “That old speak was a hot spot during Prohibition. They might have made a concealed escape for raids. Lots of places did. You know the Nightcrawler’s got one.”

  “I don’t see how Leon or the contractors could have missed it. Or me for that matter. The building’s not connected to any others, the basement floor’s uneven but solid. That place has been gone over inch by inch; they’d have found something.” And they had. That woman’s remains.

  “So whoever it was used a fire exit to get out, then.”

  “But why leave a shot of whiskey behind? As a joke it’s a lame duck.”

  She spread her hands and shook her head. She wanted to help, but couldn’t.

  “Okay, I’ll figure it out later. Now what’s the big deal having me here so early?”

  “You complaining?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re sweet. Did Charles tell you I’ve tracked down the dress?”

  “Not exactly, but he got these from Lieutenant Blair.” I gave her the manila envelope. She pulled out the photos and studied them. “He said something about the label inside. That you used to go to the dress shop.”

  “I sure as hell did, and paid through the nose there, too. Could have knocked me over with a feather when he told me the name of the place. It’s shut down now, but,” and she looked happily smug, “the former owner should be here any minute.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She slipped the photos back and held up her index finger. “Look at that and be grateful. I nearly wore it down to the joint from all the dialing I’ve done today trying to find him.”

  “Him?” I had some idea that dress shops were strictly female territory.

  “He’s a bit festive, but very nice. He’s got a real gift for knowing what looks good on a girl—”

  A brisk knock on the door interrupted her.

  “That’ll be him.”

  “The mirror,” I said.

  “Just a minute—” she yodeled to her visitor.

  She grabbed a kimono from a hook and draped it carelessly over the offending furniture, covering its selective reflection of the room. Selective in that I wasn’t included with the inventory.

  “All right, come in.”

  A slender, athletic-looking man in his thirties pushed the door open. He was very handsome and dressed in a light mustard sporting coat with tan trousers and two-toned shoes of buff and white. His reddish hair was puffed rather than slicked back and matched his pencil-thin mustache. Instead of a tie he wore a pale scarf bunched around his open shirt collar, held in place by a gold stickpin. He might have gotten first place in a John Barrymore look-alike contest.

  “Roberta, darling! It has been entirely tooooo long!” he said, sailing in, arms wide. As the room was small he didn’t have far to go before encountering Bobbi. They wrapped up tight
in a hard embrace.

  “Joe, you sweetheart! You look wonderful!”

  “Oh, you are just too, too kind, my dear. And to have me come backstage at the star’s special request. My friends will all be soooo jealous!”

  They went on like this for a time while I played chopped liver in the corner. When they finally pried themselves apart Bobbi introduced me to Mr. Joe James, designer of beautiful gowns for lovely ladies. We said the usual things to each other and shook hands.

  “Joe used to own La Femme Joeena, the ritziest couturier’s west of Paris,” she said.

  “Own! Darling, I was La Femme Joeena! And Paris was the ritziest place east of me. I’d still have the shop except for the call to higher things.”

  “He does costume design work for Hollywood now,” she explained.

  “Here in Chicago?” I asked. The festive Joe James did seem just a touch out of place on the prairie lands, but he’d fit in perfectly in the movies or New York theater.

  “Absolutely!” he said. “They send me pictures of the actress and a script, and I send them exquisite works of art in return. Most of the time it’s pearls before swine, and they change everything, but so long as those nice big checks clear the bank who cares? Roberta, how did you like that last one I did? The one with Joan Crawford? But the other one with what’s-her-name—I swear Adrian was stealing all my work from my last film and taking the credit. And what is that rag you’re wearing? I’ve used better things than that to dust my studio. I want you to come by tomorrow and let me do you a favor. That blue is just too purple for you. What you need is something cooler and more saturated to do you justice, I’ve always said that, haven’t I?”

  “You’re a genius, Joe, that’s why I called you.”

  “And only just in time—”

  “But it’s not my wardrobe I want to talk about.”

  “Then your friend here? I suppose I could give him a few sterling snippets of advice, but menswear just isn’t my specialty, though I know what I like.” And he gave me a charming smile with lots of twinkle in his eyes.

  Bobbi didn’t raise her voice; in fact, she sounded just as cheerfully pleasant. “Back off, bitch, he’s mine.”

  Joe James made a little mewing sound of disappointment in his throat. “Oh, well, you can’t blame a fellow for trying. Don’t mind me, Mr. Fleming, I’m an unrepentant flirt.”

  “No problem, Mr. James,” I said affably.

  He gave a huge sigh and rounded on Bobbi. “All right, darling, what do you want done?”

  “Have a seat.” She indicated that he take her dressing chair while she perched on a spare stool facing him. I stood by and watched the show. She took the photos from the manila envelope and gave them to him.

  “What is this?” He looked from one to the other and then at Bobbi. “A traffic accident?”

  “Just about. I want you to cast your mind back a few years. What can you tell me about a bright red evening gown with matching sequins for a woman with dark hair?”

  “Bright red? I use that a lot. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “This is special. A deep tone, intense, it stands out.”

  I wondered if she’d compare it to blood. The dress must have been close to that color when new.

  James thought about it a moment. “What you might be describing is something I called Royal Red. I’d use it to make a violent splash here and there, but I’ve not much need for it now. It photographs on film stock as being sooty black. Throws the whole balance off if I’m not careful.”

  “Can you remember making such a gown in that shade?”

  “I made several.” Another glance at the photos. “Oh, dear. You mean one of my masterpieces has been reduced to this?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “Oh, the poor thing.” He clucked and shook his head at the loss.

  “The patterning of the sequins on the skirt is pretty distinct. Can you remember this particular design?

  “Every last stitch of it. Custom-tailored jobs at that price I never forget.”

  “Who ordered it?”

  “No one you’d know, I hope. Bit of jumped-up trash was that bolt of goods, but she had the money, and who am I to argue with the lovely clink of cold cash in these hard times? She called herself Lena Ashley, but I know she couldn’t have had that much class on her birth certificate. One is either born with it or not. She was not.”

  Bobbi shot me a happy smirk, brows arched with triumph. “There you are, Sherlock. Joe just solved it for you.”

  “Lena Ashley? That’s her name?” It seemed too good to be true.

  “What did I just solve?” he demanded.

  “I gotta have more than this,” I said to him. “How can you be so sure this is from your shop?”

  Mr. James looked both smug and amused at my ignorance. “How could Michelangelo be sure of the difference between his David and the Sistine Chapel? Darling, when I make a work of art I remember it.”

  Bobbi nodded agreement. “He’s got one of those kinds of memory, Jack. Like Gordy.”

  “Just from a color and some sequins?”

  “It’s a special shade,” he said, “custom-made exclusively for La Femme Joeena. Back then I only used that rich a red for accents in my trims, only rarely as a dress. Lena positively fell in love with it and insisted I do a whole gown for her of the stuff. I will admit that she was right in her choice. She had a certain gold tone to her skin, and the red set it off in a most spectacular way. She loved it, but never came back for another, and she said she would. She still had two hundred dollars owing on her account, too, the bitch. I sent her a dozen bills until they started coming back with ‘no forwarding’ stamped on them.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “The bills or the dress?”

  “Lena. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Um, that would be about five years ago now last spring. I’d have to find my old account books to give an exact date. Whatever would you want with the likes of Lena Ashley, anyway? She was a soiled dove and no mistake. She sometimes got her colors right, but she was still dumb as a brick for all her airs and money.”

  “You’re sure it’s the only dress you ever made in that design?”

  “Positive. I remember laying out the sequin pattern myself, then after doing the outline to the motifs, I gladly turned it over to one of the seamstresses to finish filling it in. She cursed me roundly for it, too, but later admitted it was spectacular.”

  “What if Lena loaned it to someone else?”

  Joe looked shocked. “My ladies swapping their gowns around like a rummage sale? Unthinkable. Even Lena wouldn’t do that. All my works are custom-fitted to the individual body. This dress wouldn’t hang quite the same way on another woman, and she would know it. She’d just feel it! Of course, it was just awful if they gained a pound or three, then there was absolute hell to pay with alterations. Oh, the tales I could tell.”

  “What about another woman wanting an identical dress with the same kind of sequins?”

  “Duplication? Just what kind of a Philistine do you take me for? My reputation would have been ruined in a week if I allowed that sort of thing to happen. No, my dear. I always did one design per customer. That was the main idea about their coming to me in the first place, after all. Lena was the only woman who got that particular pattern.” His gaze flipped back and forth between me and Bobbi. “What’s all this huge interest on the dress? And Lena?”

  “You seen the papers today?” I asked.

  Joe James blinked dramatically. “My God, you don’t mean it! You’re that Jack Fleming? And… and she was the one walled up in your club?”

  “My club to be, it’s not open yet, and yes, I guess she was if you’re right about the dress. That’s why I had to be sure you were sure. It’s what was on the remains they found.” I indicated the photos.

  He immediately dropped them on the makeup table as though they were hot. “How utterly awful! That poor girl!”

 
“I’m surprised the cops haven’t contacted you already.”

  “They have to find me first. I’m overdue on a film deadline and hiding out with friends. Those studio bastards keep phoning to hurry me up, and that interrupts my concentration. I’ve not checked with my answering service in a couple of days. If dear Roberta hadn’t called every fashion store in town trying to find me, I’d still be in happy seclusion working away on my new masterpieces.”

  I turned to Bobbi, lifting her hand and kissing her dialing finger. “Have I ever told you that you’re perfect?”

  “Yes, but it bears frequent repeating.”

  “Ah, young love,” said Joe in an approving tone. “I must say he’s better than the last one, darling. Now tell me what’s going on. Am I to have the police on my doorstep? Do you know what effect that will have on my delivery schedule?”

  “You’ll hear from the cops, all right,” I said. “No way out of it.”

  “Damn.”

  “Could you tell us what you know about Lena?”

  “Of course, but why?”

  “It’s my nightclub, and I don’t want this hanging over the roof like some thunderbolt waiting to drop. If I can point the cops in the right direction for the killer, then maybe that poor woman can rest in peace.”

  “How utterly noble. The killer? God, but I never thought of that. She didn’t get all walled up by herself, did she? Oh, it gives me the leaping fantods just thinking about it. I don’t want my name involved. Suppose he comes after me?”

  “I can fix it so your name stays out of the papers. I have an in with the guy in charge of the case.”

  “You must tell me your secret sometime. Well, all right, what do you want to hear?”

  “Where did she live, who did she know. If she was on the make, who paid her bills?”

  “I’ll have to look her address up in my old files, but you’d have better luck talking with that Rita creature, if she’s still around after all this while. They were best friends, always in the shop together.”